


Lord of Misrule

by Ololon



Category: Discworld - Terry Pratchett
Genre: Adventure, Comedy, F/M, M/M, PWP
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-06
Updated: 2018-11-13
Packaged: 2019-07-27 07:21:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 15,821
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16214225
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ololon/pseuds/Ololon
Summary: Adora Belle Dearheart is going to be out of town for a quite a while. She knows Moist is just going to get himself into trouble whilst she's gone, so she arranges to get him into exactly the right (or wrong) kind of trouble.





	1. Chapter 1

_'Miss Dearheart, I really wish you would not leave the city for long periods. It makes this man seek danger.'_

\- Lord Vetinari, Making Money

 

'...And Mrs von Lipwig of the Golem's Trust has requested an appointment with you, sir,' Drumknott finished, glancing up expectantly from his list. Vetinari raised an eyebrow. Whilst it was true that people did, very rarely, schedule appointments with him, if they absolutely felt they had to, it was more usually the case that they were trying to schedule appointments before they found out that they had one anyway. As he could think of no particular reason why he would want an appointment with the lady in question, he could only assume that it was because she really wanted one with him. No doubt this meant that she wanted something _from_ him.

'Has she indeed? Well, well, I suppose I shall hear what she has to say. Something fascinating about golems, no doubt. And incidentally, Drumknott, I believe she prefers to go by Ms Dearheart.'

'Yes sir,' Drumknott replied, dutifully amending his note. Ms Dearheart could be a very...forceful young lady. 'There is an available timeslot at 9:15am this coming Wednesday, sir.' Vetinari grinned.

'Send my coach for her now, Drumknott.' The clerk coughed politely.

'And Lord Downey?' Who had been sitting listening to the irregular clock for the past twelve minutes. 

'Can wait. It will do him good. Reschedule.' A very astute observer might have seen a faint twitch of a suppressed smile on the clerk's impassive face, but probably would have dismissed it as their imagination.

'Very good, sir.'

*          *          *

Adora Belle von Lipwig/Dearheart, depending on how much you valued your feet, pushed past Drumknott and stomped into the Patrician's office, slammed down into the chair and lit a cigarette without so much as a by-your-leave. Vetinari watched this with patient interest (albeit also with slightly watering eyes). In the corner of his peripheral vision, he saw his clerk open a window, before making a discreet (if hasty) exit, surreptitiously planting an ash tray on the desk on the way out.

'I didn't mean right _now,_ ' she accused, as a blast of wintry Ankh-Morpork fog charged in and commenced battle with the already thick smoke. Vetinari's face assumed a benevolent expression, which was usually guaranteed to make most people suddenly extremely unsure of themselves.

'Ms Dearheart,' he said, smoothly, 'I always have time to listen to the opinions of such a major contributor to the city's wellbeing as the Golem Trust.' Ms Dearheart levelled him a look in return that rather well said what she thought of that.

'It's nothing to do with the golems, well, not directly. It's Moist,' she said, watching for his reaction.

'Oh?' Not giving one.

'I'll be leaving the city for at least three months, possibly longer, to oversee the establishment of a new branch of the Golem Trust in Quirm. So goodness only knows what he'll get up to.' She took a heavy drag of the cigarette, which rather well depleted it to its limits, and tapped it on the tray without looking: the ash fell off the side onto the desk. Vetinari raised a suitably incredulous brow.

'Ms Dearheart, am I given to understand that you want me to _keep an eye on your husband_ for you?' There was a gleam of savage amusement in her eyes.

'Hardly, but I thought it only fair to warn you. Tempting as it may be to just lock him up for the duration, I suspect that may impede his effectiveness at his job. Or jobs, rather.' _Tempting for whom?_ Vetinari wondered, instantly. He sighed.

'Well, I suppose I can have him followed.'

'You already do,' she pointed out, sucking the last life out of the cigarette. In the thickening atmosphere of the room, the fog was losing.

'Ms Dearheart, you appear to want to suggest something.' Her eyes narrowed slightly, assessing, and she viciously stubbed out the brutalised remains of the cigarette, inside the tray this time.

'It does occur to me that if he were, shall we say, _supplied_ with certain sources of excitement, then it might serve to keep him out of more dangerous trouble. Or troublesome danger.' Vetinari's stare was like looking at the void.

'I think you may wish to be having this discussion with the Assassin's Guild, Madam.'

'Too fatal,'  

'The Fool's Guild, then.'

'Too...funny.'        

'Shall I perhaps arrange to supply him with one of Mr Tubsinger's “Giant Inflatyble Houses of Funne?”' he asked, caustically, but only succeeded in surprising a bark of laughter out of the woman seated opposite.

'I had in mind something a little more… _grown-up_.' Vetinari leaned back, considering. Adora Belle Dearheart took the opportunity to light up another cigarette. In the fug of the room, strange, self-replicating molecules holding the promise of new life were busy copying themselves. She waited for his reply, but the Patrician was quite used to winning the waiting game, and Ms Dearheart was hardly well known for her patience.

'Look,' she said at last, jabbing the cigarette towards his face, 'There's only one source of danger in this city that he's going to take seriously whilst I'm away, and I'm looking at it. Don't get me wrong,' another lung-scouring drag, 'It's not that I don't want to _be_ with him, it's just that I'd kill him if I had to live with him _all_ the time, and, as such, I'd like to know he was in, shall we say, _capable_ hands, on those necessary occasions of my _regular_ absences from the city.' Vetinari carried on listening, watchfully. It would not be true to say that he did not have a reasonable idea of where this was going; from all the (thorough) reports his spies gave him, Moist von Lipwig and Adora Belle Dearheart had what many would consider to be an…unconventional marriage. Nevertheless, he was at least a little surprised at the turn of the conversation. Ms Dearheart looked directly at him over the top of her cigarette, raised an eyebrow and positively _sucked_ the helpless cigarette down to the nub. 'I think we can come to a perfectly equitable arrangement here,' she added, throatily. Vetinari coughed, slightly.

'And what, precisely, do you think - '

'Oh don't give me that “what am I going to get from it” nonsense,' Adora interrupted. Vetinari blinked. He was not often interrupted. 'You _get_ ,' she said, slowly and precisely, 'Whatever you care to take. And a bank manager who is still able to show up to work alive in the morning. I presume.'

'Oh, there are _conditions_ attached to this arrangement then?' She snorted amusement.

'Just so long as I get him back in one piece, your lordship,' she said, with a knowing smile, and stubbed out the latest victim. 'You can do whatever you please.' That got the double eyebrow raise, and a very level look indeed.

'Madam, it has perhaps escaped your notice that as the supreme ruler of this city I can do whatever I please in _anything_ , and have enjoyed this heightened state of affairs for some years now.'

'You can,' she agreed happily, 'Although I suspect that one of the reasons this heightened state of affairs has continued for some years is that you don't, usually. Certainly, not without restraint'.

'Indeed,' frostily. Vetinari appeared to be absorbed in a study of the ash tray for a minute. Adora waited. She could wait _one_ minute, give or take.

'What a very... _progressive_ young lady you are, Ms Dearheart,' Vetinari commented at last, a ghost of a smile chasing across his face, though the eyes were guarded, still.

'Certainly a practical one,' she agreed, eyes triumphant. She had sensed victory, and was now going to be magnanimous. 'One may even say generous, occasionally.'

'Oh Ms Dearheart, _occasionally,_ one may even say that about me.' Her smile didn't falter, but it stopped, sensing the crocodiles of menace lurking beneath the calm tone. Then, abruptly, Vetinari smiled back, dazzlingly so, and she almost rocked back in her seat.

'Do have a enjoyable and productive trip, Ms Dearheart,' he said. She left with alacrity, destroying millions of heretofore unknown nicotine-based lifeforms in her smoky wake.

*          *          *

 


	2. Chapter 2

'Two Gentlemen To See You, Sir,' Gladys announced, somehow managing to inject just the right amount of scepticism into Gentlemen, and Moist glanced up warily from his paperwork. Alarm bells started ringing. The two gentlemen were depressingly familiar.

'His Lordship will see you now,' one of them announced, cheerfully.

'Oh good!' When what he was thinking was: But I haven't _done_ anything yet!

He kept on thinking it as he rattled all the way back to the Palace in the Patrician's coach – he had braced himself for Vetinari being in the coach, but apparently this was a proper Appointment. So instead he sat there thinking: But I haven't done _anything_ yet! Admittedly, it was probably the “yet” part of that sentence that had caught his Lordship's attention. Adora Belle had left exactly two weeks ago, and he was beginning to get...no, not twitchy. Not yet. Just a little restless, perhaps. The bank was doing very well; going from strength to strength and with most of its more pressing problems solved. Before long, it could probably run itself. 

'Try not to get into _too_ much trouble,' she had said, a parting warning, with a knowing gleam in her eye that he had found a little disturbing. Of course, she knew what he was like. _He_ knew what he was like. Unfortunately, Lord Vetinari also knew what he was like. The “yet” was a given.

'Ah, Mr Lipwig, do sit down,' Vetinari waved vaguely at the chair in front of the desk, and he sat down cautiously, resisting the urge to protest his innocence from the outset. Unobserved, Mr Fusspot took a flying leap from his basket to Moist's lap, with an excited little 'Woof!' Moist in turn leapt in the air with what was definitively _not_ a startled little noise that sounded more like “Squeak!” Discomfited, he settled back down, trying to fend off Mr Fusspot's enthusiastic attempts to slobber his face. Vetinari was watching him with clear amusement.

'You seem a little uneasy, Mr Lipwig,' he remarked, injecting just the right amount of curious concern into his tone. 'I hope nothing is the matter?'

'No, not at all,' Moist said, biting back a ruder retort, 'Was there something you wished to discuss with me, my lord?' There was something.... _different_ about Vetinari, and it was _definitely_ making him uneasy. He couldn't quite pinpoint what it was but....

'Oh, just a little chat, see how you're doing, that sort of thing,' Vetinari remarked, casually, or what _he_ called casually, at least.

‘A _little chat?_ ’ Moist repeated, incredulously. The Patrician ignored this, and lifted a piece of paper from the neat pile in front of him. 'The bank appears to be doing well, I see.'

'Yes, sir,' Moist responded automatically. Then he saw it. The top button of Vetinari's tunic shirt was undone, revealing just the smallest triangle of startlingly pale skin beneath.

‘I suggest you summarise the latest developments, then.' With an effort, Moist dragged his eyes back to the Patrician's face, which had assumed an expression of polite interest, and attempted to assemble his scattered wits. Well, fine, maybe he could get something useful out of the man. He launched into a spiel of the latest that was happening in the heady world of finance. Mr Fusspot turned in a little circle in his lap three times and settled there. Moist's mouth ran on happily of its own accord, but his brain kept coming back to the button. Surely he _knew_ it was undone, but it could hardly be deliberate. The miserable summer had rained itself out last week, and there had been a distinct autumnal chill in the air that morning.

'…So I think we're going to have to introduce a new fifty dollar note, and I was thinking of bringing out that commemorative set of coins for Hogswatch: some of the earlier ones have become very collectable already and we could make a _mint,_ if you'll pardon the expression sir...' It wasn't much warmer in here. It never was...no, wait a minute, it _was_ warm in here; pleasantly warm. A quick glance at the periphery of his vision revealed that the fire in the grate was substantially larger than usual, and Mr Fusspot was a hot little lump in his lap. Maybe it was for the dog's benefit...the fire, not the button, of course....maybe the Patrician _did_ find it warm.

'…So we have had some grumblings from the eastern nations about the current exchange rate...I gather people are starting to use Ankh-Morpork dollars more than the Zlobenian Pichuk...' he wittered on, realising as he did that the Patrician would surely have heard the grumbles before he had, so this was hardly news to him. Vetinari was listening with half-closed eyes, fingers steepled in front of his face, that triangle of flesh framed below, dragging Moist's gaze back to it. It wasn't like it was indecent, of course, or even unnatural. Why, a man could and did undo his top button regularly; if it was a little warm, if he was in casual company. It was just that Vetinari, in all the times he had seen him, including in the summer warmth, _never had._ Didn't he have servants to point that sort of thing out to him? Well, of course, he had servants to dress him completely, but, somehow, Moist suspected that he never let them.

'I am concerned that the rural economy not become too unsettled by Ankh-Morpork's continued prosperity,' Vetinari abruptly commented, and Moist's eyeballs leapt back up to his face. If they had, they would have yipped in fright. Vetinari's own eyes were wide open and looking straight at him. Oh god, what if he'd seen him staring?

'In actual fact,' his mouth carried on alone, gallantly, 'The city's demand for foodstuffs and other supplies appears to be having a beneficial effect on the outlying rural regions, particularly the cabbage growing areas...' Vetinari's gaze became hooded again. His own wandered again. That was it! It was just another bit of trickery, the old psychological manipulation. Distract the interviewee by doing something out of place, out of character. A vivid tie or flower in the buttonhole would be far too obvious, so Vetinari opted for something far more subtle; just one button left undone. Yes, that was it! He felt silly for not working it out sooner, but then, Vetinari had caught him on the back foot summoning him here when he'd been behaving so well. Now that he knew what it was, he could ignore it. He became aware that his mouth, feeling lonely, had stopped. And Vetinari wasn't talking. And his eyes were wide open again.

'Um, yes, well, I think that's about everything,' he said.

'Splendid,' Vetinari beamed, which just fazed him even further. 'I'm so glad to see that you are applying yourself with the same industry and vigour to the bank that you did to the Post Office.'

'I appear,' Moist said, drolly, 'To have a knack for it.'

'Indeed.' Vetinari leaned back in his chair slightly. The lapels of his shirt pulled apart a little further. There was a suggestion of hair at the bottommost V of the triangle. 'And have you heard from Ms Dearheart?' To his horror, Moist found that he once again had to point his eyeballs in a more appropriate direction, only to find Vetinari's had got there first again.

'Er, yes, thank you, I received a clacks to say she arrived safely and was made very welcome.'

'Oh good. A woman very dedicated to her cause, your wife.'

'Er, yes.' Um was last year's fashion. This year, all the snappily dressed bankers were saying Er.

'I trust you will not feel her absence _too_ keenly.' Feeling a surge of irritation, Moist glared at Vetinari. _I haven't done anything,_ he thought, furiously. _Yet_ , said that impassive blue stare.

'Well, don't let me keep you from your work, Mr Lipwig,' Vetinari dismissed him, abruptly. He leaned forward over the desk, apparently already interested in his papers, and revealed...nothing, as his hand came up to cup his chin, and stroke his beard, thoughtfully. Confused, Moist got up and made a hasty retreat.

'Mr Lipwig,' Vetinari said, mildly, and he froze. 'Do leave the Chairman behind.’

'Er, right. Yes of course! Sorry!' He carefully put a sleepily-blinking Mr Fusspot down on the floor and patted his head farewell, then made as dignified an exit he could, at speed. Vetinari listened to the hastily retreating footsteps, and smiled.

 

That night, Moist had an Inappropriate Dream about Lord Vetinari (which might more accurately be termed an Inappropriate Nightmare, because it was certainly scary enough). It was made only the worse being woken up to the sight of Glady’s face and realising he had fallen asleep in his office again. Oh well, it could have been Adora, and then he would have blushed – she was the only who could make him blush like that – and then he would have had to explain. And she would have found it _hilarious_ – and possibly intriguing. His mind skittered off its tracks again. Damned if he was letting the Patrician catch him out like _that_ again.

Right, that was it, time for a new hobby, something to occupy the mind whilst his wife was absent. A man needed hobbies, right? Why, it was perfectly respectable for a gentleman, very much the Done Thing…


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A shorter one this time, but more to come.

The black coach outside the bank three weeks later was not entirely unexpected. Moist had, by this time, decided that the Patrician was up to one his nefarious, tyrannical plots and the whole button thing was definitely a distraction. Well, two could play at that sort of game. The button thing, that was, not the nefarious, tyrannical plot thing, which Vetinari had rather cornered the market in. So he was prepared as soon as he saw the coach, and dashed into his office, locking the door (Gladys again) and quickly got changed before springing almost enthusiastically into the coach.

It was another round of inconsequential small talk in the Oblong office: mostly about the bank, plus some stuff from Vetinari about the Guild of Merchants complaining about something or other that they’d already raised with Moist.

‘Already on it, sir,’ he said, only slightly defensively, trying to ignore the fact that Mr Fusspot had curled up on his feet today, and was not only numbing his toes but drooling on his carefully shined shoes.

‘Hmm,’ the Patrician said, non-committally, and _still_ completely ignoring the quite lovely gold cravat Moist had on, over his carefully selected shirt, which lacked a top button altogether. Well, he supposed he hadn’t been expecting much of a reaction, not beyond a raised eyebrow anyway (and he hadn’t even got that). That wasn’t _quite_ the point of the distraction however.

Drumknott entered with some papers which he handed to the Patrician with a murmured oblique comment that Moist strained in vain to hear. Vetinari stared at the top paper quizzically for a minute or two. After a few moments more, Moist felt obliged to make a small cough.

‘Oh, are you still here Mr Lipwig? Well, don’t let me detain you.’

‘Er…right, then.’ He pulled his feet out from Mr Fusspot, who gave a little snuffly grunt, and tried to wiggle some feeling back into his toes as he got to his feet, with the usual sense of relief he got when he escaped Lord Vetinari’s presence with all his body parts intact. Only when he was on the way out did Lord Vetinari remark,

‘By the way, Mr Lipwig, that’s a most striking cravat you’re wearing today.’ He spun round beaming, ‘But do you find, with such an unusual dye, that the colour rubs off onto your neck?’ _Ooh, you bastard_ , he thought, the smile dying. He pasted it back, dialled up to extra-brilliant.

‘Haha. It’s Agatean silk, fortunately.’

‘Indeed, how unusual.’ And expensive, Vetinari pointedly did not say. ‘Oh, and Mr Lipwig?’

‘Yes?’ A raised eyebrow, ‘Sir?’ he added, belatedly.

‘Whilst I am sure that wishing to celebrate the traditions of your Uberwald home is only to be commended, I would be obliged if you did not, in fact, introduce tar barrel rolling to the City’s harvest celebrations this year. The combination of flaming barrels of tar with clustered wooden buildings and crowds of people would be, I would venture to suggest, an ultimately unhappy one.’ Moist hadn’t in fact been planning to do any such thing, contenting himself with indulging in a little nocturnal practice with the Uberwaldian Heritage Sports Society*. But of course, he could hardly admit that to Vetinari, even if he evidently already knew.

‘How about if we don’t set the barrels on fire?’ he suggested, weakly, resisting the urge to pull at the necktie.

‘But that would take all the excitement out of it.’ Said with a commiserating downturn of the mouth that was probably the least convincing expression he had ever seen on the man’s face and most definitely not a pout. ‘Well, I suppose you could always put yourself in the barrel as it’s rolled down the street instead,’ Vetinari commented, with just a hint of an edge to his otherwise almost jesting tone. Drumknott leaned forward and whispered something in his master’s ear.

‘Oh, my mistake,’ Lord Vetinari said brightly, ‘ _That_ type of barrel rolling is a Borogravian tradition, I’m given to understand.’

‘Right you are sir,’ Moist said, admitting defeat, ‘No tar barrel rolling.’ Well, he thought as he left, resisting the temptation to slam the door (he was not, after all, of Commander Vimes’ temperament), he hadn’t really done anything so very much. Yet.

 

 

 

*Which practiced such traditional games as drinking a yard of weissbier, the fish-slapping dance, “waltzing on ice” (on frozen lakes in traditional horn-and-wood ice skates), and the Long Run. This involved dressing up in a bear skin (and just a bear skin) and running across the werewolf territories in the light of a full moon chanting all sixty-four verses of the Uberwaldian bear-hunting song.

 

*          *           *


	4. Chapter 4

Vetinari left Moist alone for a couple more weeks, somewhat to his surprise, because he’d been having _quite_ the time, what with the high-stakes card games, breaking and entering the Mint (leaving “After Oct” mints scattered on all the clerks’ desks), and flirting with moonshine distribution. It was almost a relief when the black coach drew up outside the Bank very early one morning – so early he’d only just got dressed – and Gladys came in to inform he had an Appointment with Lord Vetinari. He’d been so tensed up about the inevitable meeting that he almost skittered down the steps in his haste to get in the coach, and let out an undignified yelp when he discovered that Lord Vetinari himself was sitting in the opposite seat, quite calmly; _sans_ Drumknott, but with Mr Fusspot sitting next to him instead.

‘Ah! Um, good morning, sir!’ he gasped, sitting down and trying to get his heart rate back down to human as opposed to startled mouse levels.

‘Good morning, Mr Lipwig, and indeed it promises to be a fine one.’ It certainly did; one of those pleasant, early autumnal days that gave warmth, but not heat.

‘Our conversation last time put me in mind of an idea,’ Lord Vetinari said, ‘Of perhaps doing something on the Palace grounds for the harvest festival, since the summer was so wet and miserable. A few entertainments, fireworks, clowns for the children, that sort of thing.’

‘Er,’ Lipwig said, nonplussed, then rallied, ‘That’s a – ‘ he nearly said _nice_ but his tongue refused to put that in any sentence involving the Patrician, ‘A very civic idea, sir.’

‘Capital. I trust you’ll have time to organise this around your busy schedule, and I’m sure you’ll be able to persuade the Guild of Merchants to drum up some sponsorship.’

‘I’ll speak to them this afternoon,’ he said. Oh well, payback for the tar barrels, and it might be fun, after all. Apart from that, the conversation didn’t really get any more exciting. _He’s making me stew,_ Moist thought, subtly eyeing the man for any unusual wardrobe choices, but it was only the usual black tunic, fully buttoned (he ignored the twinge of disappointment). It was only then that he remembered he was wearing the damning gold cravat; he had a meeting with the Guild of Merchants later that afternoon, and hadn’t been able to resist. Besides, it kept the early morning chill out. As if he had read Moist’s mind, Lord Vetinari glanced at his neck briefly, then looked out of the coach window, giving one those disturbing little smiles, presumably to himself. Moist started mentally tallying up his sins.

 

After about twenty minutes, the coach drew up outside the Palace. Moist was by this time so full of tension he almost bounced out of the carriage like a tightly wound spring just released, Lord Vetinari could not help but notice, highly amused. He turned round and lifted Mr Fusspot out of the coach.

‘I have one or two matters to attend to,’ he commented, handing the dog’s leash to an increasingly bemused Lipwig, ‘Do take Mr Fusspot for a little turn about the gardens. I shall see you in thirty minutes.’ He could feel Lipwig staring at his back as he walked unhurriedly into the Palace, and wondered if he’d take the cravat off. He rather hoped not.

Needless to say, Lipwig arrived at the Oblong Office, precisely forty minutes later, slightly out of breath and fetchingly pink-faced with the morning chill. The dog was tucked under his arm, drooling slightly. Lord Vetinari gave him a rather pointed look at this tardiness, although in fact he was using the moment to regard Lipwig critically, weighing up the cost/benefit analysis to his proposed course of action.

‘I’m sorry I’m late sir,’ Lipwig said, hastily taking off Mr Fusspot’s leash and setting him down on the floor, ‘The Chairman decided to, um, do his business on the lawn right by the front door and I thought it had better get cleared up.’ He reached for the chair on the other side of the desk.

‘ _Remain standing,_ ’ Vetinari said, sharply, and watched Moist almost snap to attention. Promising, indeed. He got up from behind the desk and deliberately stalked forward. Lipwig, predictably, started backing off, with a certain air of frightened rabbit about him. Vetinari closed the last few paces between them rapidly. Lipwig hit the wall with a thump.

‘Er…,’ he began, lipping his lips nervously.

‘And who is going to clear up _your_ business, Mr Lipwig?’ Vetinari asked. Only years of practice ensured he kept his face straight. A nervous chuckle escaped the man in front of him; this close, Vetinari’s height advantage was more pronounced. Mr Fusspot sat up in his basket, regarding them with his head cocked curiously on one side.

‘I assure you the bank is functioning efficiently and – ‘ Vetinari gave a slight cough, ‘- legally,’ he finished, weakly.

‘I’m not talking about the bank, and you know it.’ Moist tugged at the cravat as if he was too hot. Vetinari placed his arm on wall above Lipwig’s head and leaned, watching the conman-turned-respectable citizen flush. Interesting.

‘If this is about the moonshine…’ Lipwig began, casting about rather desperately.

‘The Watch can deal with that. It will be good practice for them,’ Vetinari dismissed that, ‘And I’m sure they won’t find any connection to you.’

‘Absolutely not. I _did_ resign from the Uberwaldian Heritage Sports Society,’ he added, hopefully. Vetinari smiled, not a particularly nice smile, he knew. He removed his arm and stood upright again, watching Lipwig take a shuddering breath. It was too good an opportunity to pass up.

‘You appear to be having a little difficulty, Mr Lipwig,’ he commented, almost conversationally, reaching forward and undoing the gold cravat. Lipwig went motionless; he could feel his pulse hammering in his throat. It sped up a little, but, judging from the way his pupils had dilated, it wasn’t _entirely_ fear. Well, well.

‘It’s just a little warm in here after outside,’ Lipwig said, rather desperately, his usual flair having apparently deserted him. Vetinari abruptly pulled the cravat tight, though not sufficient to hinder his breathing; restraint was the measure of a man, after all. Lipwig’s hands automatically grabbed his own, but didn’t, he noted, try to pull them away.

‘Your high stakes games of Hazard have seriously inconvenienced Lord Selachii. I would appreciate it if you didn’t bankrupt him by the end of the week, or it will at least slightly inconvenience me.’

‘How about by the end of the month?’ Lipwig asked. The snappy retorts tripped so easily off the man’s tongue, he suspected they required little actual thought. Nevertheless, it was outrageous gall. Vetinari tightened the cravat a minute fraction more.

‘A Master of Ceremonies at the Harvest Festival will, I think, prove a most suitable role for our fine city’s chief banker. A Lord of Misrule will not.’

‘Only room for one of those, I’d imagine,’ Lipwig said, with a weak chuckle. Vetinari gave him a look, but let him go. The cheek was, he had grown to appreciate, an ingrained character trait. It was seldom actually disrespect. Not for him, anyway, which was what mattered.

‘The coach will take you back,’ he said, shortly, walking unhurriedly back to his desk, twirling the cravat absently in his fingers.

‘Um, can I have that back?’ Lipwig asked, even as he edged towards the door. Vetinari cocked his head to one side, considering a moment.

‘Hmm. No.’ He slipped the cravat into a pocket and watched Lipwig’s eyes narrow. ‘Good day Mr Lipwig.’

 

*           *           *


	5. Chapter 5

Moist was quite certain he had never come out of a meeting so flustered. Not to mention scared witless. And more than a little aroused. He calmed down, of course – and threw the Hazard game that night, which would have made him _quite_ the tidy sum (and possibly a visit from the Assassin’s Guild). But the thought of… _more_ …simply set his heart to racing again. His cravat though! He’d had that made specially. Not that he was vain, or anything; he had spent a large part of his life ensuring he was eminently forgettable. Gold suits were memorable (even if they tended to blur one’s face, by contrast). No, Vetinari had metaphorically thrown the gauntlet down with that. It was a challenge. Clearly. He wasn’t _entirely_ sure as to what – but he was pretty sure, and it lent such a frisson of excitement and unknown, exotic danger that he was, quite simply, unable to resist wandering into the lion’s den and having a poke –

– literally. It took some time, but he was able, eventually, to finagle sufficient information out of some of the more persuadable Palace guards to ascertain the exact location of the Patrician’s bedroom, and a reasonable layout of the surrounding rooms. On the pretence of planning the Harvest Festival, he’d also got a good look around the gardens and found his way in. This time, the lockpicks were delivered from _outside_ the city to _his_ Post Office, hidden in packing material. Now it only remained to be seen whether last summer’s flirtation with Ankh-Morpork’s _Eskalade_ Society** had upped his skills enough to rival someone from the Assassin’s Guild.

 

Which was how he found himself hanging from a window ledge at just gone 11pm on a Friday night. The time was carefully chosen: it was well dark by 8pm but people were still up and moving around; in the small hours of the night, generally prefaced by “am”, it was too quiet. But 11:10pm was past bedtime for those staying in and chucking out the pub time for those staying out. Noise drifted from the streets; a reassuring background hubbub, punctuated by the odd outburst of laughter or clatter of a cart wheel (or scream: this _was_ Ankh-Morpork, after all). It would cover the small, suspicious sounds of his ascent. It really was a rather long way up, though, and if he fell, the soft earth of the flowerbed below was unlikely to be soft enough. It took him nearly 20 minutes to creep up, by which time his arms were on fire with the strain, sweat was trickling down his back, and the familiar questioning of his sanity was starting to take his place.

Which was nothing compared to the sudden _tha-thump_ of his heart when he finally, cautiously, pulled himself up over the ledge of his target window and saw that there was still a light on. His fingers slipped a little, and he scrambled in a brief moment of pure terror before hauling himself up, almost heedless of any noise, and crouched awkwardly on the narrow sill. Oh…kay. The wood looked ominously warped. He peered in, the light half-dazzling him. It was Vetinari’s actual sitting room, and the light was a small table lamp set on a side table. There was a book on the table, next to a fortunately unoccupied armchair. Oh..kay. Here we go.

Breath calming (even as a deep thrill tingled down his spine), he rose to a half crouch and broke out the lockpicks. The window sprang open with an obligingly quiet snick. Nevertheless he froze, then carefully manoeuvred himself forward, both arms now grasping the inner sill. He had lifted a foot to step inside, when a door on the other side of the room opened and the Patrician came in. Oh…kay was suddenly inadequate. Vastly inadequate. Lord Vetinari had a knife in his hand, which, being Lord Vetinari, was not that surprising, and nothing else but a towel casually tied around his waist, which was very surprising indeed. Moist yelped and lost his grip; he might still have recovered it, were it not for the fact that the rotten windowsill decided to choose that moment to break. For a horrible, endless moment, Moist was left with his feet windmilling in empty space, two fingers screeching back across the sill as he fell, to leave him dangling by one arm. A strong hand grabbed his wrist painfully hard; he hung briefly in mid-air, then managed to fling his other arm up and grab the sill, and pull himself most of the way into the room with all the dignity and grace of an arthritic seal trying to haul itself onto the shore. He was half-in, half-out, then Vetinari’s other hand had him by the back of the shirt and almost flung him into the room, where he sprawled onto the floor, staring wide-eyed back at the Patrician. He opened his mouth to speak. A sound came out. It sounded something like: ‘Fuhnuhargh.’ Lord Vetinari glanced down at himself, then shrugged, very slightly.

‘Mr Lipwig,’ he said, almost conversationally, ‘It was you or the towel.’

*           *           *

 

 

**Also known as the Urban Free-Climbing society***: A sport of running, jumping and scaling improbably tall buildings without assistance (or safety equipment). Generally practiced by hooded youths substantially younger, more anonymous-looking and more flexible than even the (relatively) young Mr Lipwig.

***“Urban” in the title was good, but _Eskalade_ sounded cooler and more mysterious, by virtue of being Quirmian in origin, but spelt with a K.       


	6. Chapter 6

All things considered, Moist reflected, some minutes later, as he sat perched on Lord Vetinari’s bed (and wasn’t that a weird thought?) it could have been a lot worse. He could have died falling out the window; he could have died being killed by a justifiably angry Assassin, and Lord Vetinari was too much of a gentleman to have said: _While you’re down there…_ when Moist had sprawled on his backside on the floor in front of said (naked, not apparently angry) Assassin. He was trying to get that image out of his mind. He was not succeeding. As it was, said (actually supremely indifferent) Assassin was now dabbing fastidiously at his shredded fingers with some alcohol solution, and neatly bandaging them up. After Moist’s inglorious entrance, Lord Vetinari had wandered back off into the adjacent bathroom, in a distinctly unbothered manner (giving Moist a _fine_ view from the rear, too) and then come back out (disappointingly in a loosely belted robe) carrying a small object, which had proved to be a first aid box. Moist launched into the “explanation” he’d finally assembled in his brain, which Vetinari had ignored, only to say:

‘That will go septic very rapidly if it is not taken care of,’ and sat down next to him and held out his hand expectantly.

So Moist was having his fingers bandaged up by a man who had once had him hung to within an inch of his life, and whose bedroom he had just broken into. He wondered, idly, where the knife had gone.

‘Well, I guess you know I’m not here to try and kill you,’ he said, trying for a conversational tone. Vetinari said nothing, but his mouth quirked slightly in amusement. As well it might. ‘I was actually,’ Moist persevered, ‘Trying to reclaim my cravat. And thought I’d get some practice in, since I’m still, um, technically a member of the Ankh-Morpork _Eskalade_ society.’ He told himself that it was the low light in the room that occasioned that look on Vetinari’s face, because it couldn’t possibly have been an eye-roll.

‘How do you know I didn’t leave the cravat in the office?’ Vetinari asked, mildly, returning Moist’s (very neatly) bandaged fingers (and he still had all ten of them, which felt like a result).

_Because you just didn’t,_ Moist thought to himself, _Because this is a game, and that would spoil it. Because I haven’t called you “sir” since I came in here, and you haven’t even given me one Look for it._

‘Because it would look very odd to anyone visiting the office, obviously,’ he temporised, making a show of looking around Vetinari’s rooms; a plain set-of-three with bedroom, sitting room and bathroom. The rooms were large, but part of that impression was probably because there was not much in them; just a few pieces of old but solid furniture, in dark wood. There was a promisingly large wardrobe facing the bed, one of those heavy ones that lasted forever, with a mirror in the front, giving a perfect image of the two of them. Three of the buttons had been torn off his shirt, which was a mess, and he hadn’t even realised. They made a wanton picture, and, judging by the quirk to Vetinari’s mouth, he knew it.

‘So where have I put it then?’ Vetinari asked, a lightness to his tone that suggested – if not outright admitted – teasing. Moist grinned suddenly and flung the robe open, glancing down.

‘Oh,’ he said, looking back up again.

‘That is where _you_ would put it,’ Vetinari pointed out, but Moist had already gone too far, and pushed forward, clasping Vetinari’s head and bringing him into an almost-bruising kiss, because if he was going to die, he was at least going to wipe that smirk off the infuriating bastard’s face. Before he quite knew it, he was shoved down into the pillows, Vetinari was on top of him, and there was a knife edge at his throat. He hadn’t even seen where he’d got it from. Vetinari’s expression was utterly opaque: perhaps he would die after all. Or maybe not, he thought, getting quite uncomfortably hard. Vetinari’s eyes narrowed slightly. Moist twisted and rummaged under the pillow, feeling a rather urgent need for distraction.

‘Careful.’ Chiding. Moist pulled out another knife, a rather wicked-looking stiletto, although this one was at least sheathed.

‘Can’t you keep normal things under your pillow?’ he complained. _It’s in the wardrobe. It’s in the damn wardrobe. Because that’s where you keep clothes. And leaving a gold cravat that patently isn’t his lying around the room would set the staff to gossiping._

‘Such as?’

‘Oh, I don’t know, a handkerchief?’ he suggested, and got distracted, because Vetinari was now using the knife to slice off his remaining buttons. ‘Or pyjamas…secret cigarette…blindfold…handcuffs…’ That won him a brief _hmph!_ and a briefly raised eyebrow.

‘I shall refrain from asking what you keep under _your_ pillow,’ Vetinari remarked. _Lockpicks,_ thought Moist, _Amongst other things._ Then both the knives somehow vanished again – he really was too good at that, it was irritating, in a professional sort of way – but Moist forgot about it, because Vetinari now leaned down and kissed him back, although he was still keeping hold of his wrists. A proper kiss too, with all the long, lean weight of the man pressed hard against him. He responded with everything he owned, which possibly wasn’t wise, because his head was spinning as it was, and there was the taste of blood on his tongue. But he’d never been a wise man, anyway.

‘Do you have to control _everything?_ ’ he gasped, when they surfaced for air, pushing back against that grip a bit. A low laugh and abruptly Vetinari let go and let Moist roll on top, though he ripped the shirt off on the way, tossing it almost carelessly onto the floor.

‘Then I would control nothing,’ he said, his tone almost bland, but there was an interested look in his eyes. He thinks _I’m_ interesting, Moist thought, abruptly, which just turned him on more. He pushed Vetinari’s robes aside with unseemly haste – where _did_ the man hide those damn knives? It wasn’t like coins, that kind of sleight-of-hand. They weren’t small objects. But he wasn’t going to die today. Probably. He shifted forward – and his trousers remained behind.

‘Very clever,’ he said, drily. Vetinari’s look was one of pure innocence. It was about as convincing as coming home to a dead bird on the doorstep and your cat with a feather stuck to its whiskers, nonchalantly licking a paw. Particularly as his hands were sliding their way down Moist’s back and curving round his buttocks. ‘That look doesn’t work on you by the way, Havelock,’ he said, pushing his luck (again) by trying out the name, which tasted, on his tongue, like a forbidden fruit (and wasn’t that, at the end of the day, his favourite kind of fruit…?)

‘It doesn’t work on you either, _Moist,_ yet somehow you convince with it. It’s interesting.’ And the Patr – Havelock – pronounced _his_ name like a dirty secret.

‘Thank you, I think,’ Moist muttered, and suddenly became aware that he was sitting straddling a now-naked tyrant/deadly assassin _Lord Havelock Vetinari_ wearing only his underwear (whose integrity was increasingly in doubt). The man in question stilled his hands, cocked his head just slightly; questioning, perhaps. No: just waiting. Passively. Well, in the way that large black spiders with incredibly venomous bites sat very very still in their webs until…

Moist flipped his own pants off and crashed clumsily back down on Vetinari, only narrowly avoiding crushing both their cocks.

‘Careful,’ Vetinari warned again, around a determined armful of Moist.

‘I’m going to send you my wardrobe bill,’ said determined armful complained.

‘Not for _gold pants_ you’re not.’ Moist shrugged.

‘Well, I thought since you liked the cravat so much…’ Vetinari actually laughed out loud at that.

‘Spare me.’

‘Not likely.’ Moist said, and slid down the man’s body and licked a long, languorous stripe up Havelock’s cock, watching the man’s face at the same time. A muscle at the side of his jaw twitched (as did the cock, which was standing satisfyingly at attention by this point). Moist’s heart was pounding nineteen to the dozen and, oh look, there was a flash of dull silver, just the tiniest suggestion; but Havelock’s hands were empty in the next moment, then cradling Moist’s head in the next, bringing him back down. Moist sucked in earnest, past self-consciousness, no longer able, now, to meet that intense pale blue gaze. Not when that grip had loosened into almost something of a caress; long fingers curling through his hair, almost absent-mindedly. That length sliding in his mouth, tasting salt and musk, against the clean just-washed soap scent of his hip…the belling of his chest with the rising breath…it had been too long, and it was too dangerous, and he had not known how very badly he had wanted this.

_'Moist.’_ The same as any other warning: to be hurtled headlong towards, to see if he could fly and not fall. Havelock came with a low, forceful exclamation, and he swallowed, briefly triumphant, and, in the next moment, completely disoriented, as he found himself back where he started: flipped onto his back with a knife at his throat – but a very different taste in his mouth – and the other hand had his cock.

‘Look at me,’ came the command, when he would have looked away again. The line of that mouth was straight, severe, and he _still_ did not know whether he had gone too fatally far. But Havelock was now lightly stroking, now tugging, and he was trying not to jerk forward because that pushed him into the knife.

‘Havelock… _please,_ ’ he managed, swallowing hard and feeling that blade graze against his Adam’s apple, which sent a tingle down his spine. Havelock leant down, with almost glacial slowness, the muscles in his torso taut as steel wire, and kissed him, with such precise care it might have been labelled _caring_ in anyone else; he could feel himself trembling with the sensation. He did not last long after that, coming with a rush that felt like falling, impossibly upwards, his hands scrambling and grabbing at that lean, hard body, shouting incoherently. He was only vaguely aware, through the happy buzzing haze in his mind, of Havelock giving him a cursory sweep with the towel. Then Havelock lowered himself back down on top of Moist, pressing him slowly back into reality. He _thought_ he felt the briefest brush of bearded lips against the line of his jaw, but his yet-dazed, yet half-disbelieving brain was busy being dumbfounded at how the solid pressure of a man who had nearly killed him could make him feel so safe.

 

*          *          *


	7. Chapter 7

Moist von Lipwig, Vetinari reflected, was one of those people who was always naturally warm. Possibly because he never stayed still. Well, he’d at least found one way to stop him _talking_ so much, he thought, with a small, private smile. He rolled off after a few moments, quite content to lie on his back, half-dozing (it was, after all, gone midnight). Moist was slowly coming round from the almost-dazed, post-adrenaline comedown of his adventures, and, predictably, was fidgeting, and wondering what to do next. Experimentally, he closed his eyes, allowing his breathing to slow and deepen. Moist went still. He waited a few moments more, whilst Moist clearly was trying to decide whether Vetinari really _had_ fallen asleep. Inevitably, the temptation proved to be too much. Moist slid quietly out of the bed, modestly pulling his pants and trousers and what was left of his shirt on, then crept towards the wardrobe. It was always reassuring when people acted as you expected, Vetinari thought. He opened his eyes, focussed, and, with a casual flick of the wrist, sent his favourite throwing knife through a flap of Moist’s shirt, pinning him to the door. To Moist’s credit, he startled but did not yelp. Perhaps he had been half-expecting it. Indeed, he twisted round, yanking the knife out with a little effort, and gave an over-exaggerated sigh. He looked, if anything, even more uncomfortable holding the knife than he had the sword-cane.

‘You’ve really got it in for this shirt, haven’t you? I don’t know why, it’s not even gold.’

‘I take issue with thieves stealing around my bedroom,’ Vetinari said, but lightly, as Moist padded in a resigned manner back to the bed, pulling his trousers up again; Vetinari recalled, then, that he had sliced the fastener off earlier. Perhaps, subconsciously, he _did_ have something against the man’s clothes after all. The con artist shot him a dirty look.

‘I was just trying to retrieve _all_ my clothing,’ he said, pointedly, gingerly handing Vetinari the knife back and flopping onto the bed, close, but not touching. ‘You _would_ have a hard mattress,’ he complained, but he was watching Vetinari, who made the knife disappear, just to vex him, admittedly, but, well, he allowed himself few entertainments in life, and stirring up Moist had a far more pleasant effect than stirring up Vimes.

‘How am I going to get out of here?’ Moist wondered, aloud, propping himself up an elbow. Vetinari quirked a half-smile.

‘You should have thought of that before you came in.’

‘I did. But then the windowsill broke.’ Vetinari considered for a moment.

‘I have some rope around here somewhere…’

‘You should have said before!’ The _I’m-a-cheeky-boy-but-you’ve-got-to-love-me-for-it_ grin was back. On anyone else it would never have worked. Vetinari raised an eyebrow, admittedly fighting back a smile. How _did_ he manage to be so…likeable?

‘…but perhaps,’ he said, in his usual calm tones, ‘Hmm…yes, I would suggest you use the door.’

‘The door.’ Deflated. ‘What if somebody sees me?’ Havelock merely shrugged.

‘Then I would find out about it.’

‘And be displeased, I suppose.’

‘Merely disappointed.’ Moist groaned, falling back on the bed and flinging an arm across his face with unnecessary drama.

‘Good lord, I had teachers say that to me I don’t know how many times!’

‘You astonish me.’ Drily. ‘Oh, and Mr Lipwig?’

‘What happened to Moist?’

‘The names of the guards please.’ Moist went still, suddenly wary. ‘The ones that gave you the details of the Palace layout.’

‘You’re not going to do anything… _creative_ to them, are you?’

‘That depends on your definition of creative.’ The look on Moist’s face rather well telegraphed his thoughts: that it actually depended on what _Vetinari’s_ definition of “creative” was, and that he, Moist, hadn’t heard the end of it.

‘I’m going to get that cravat back you know,’ he said, instead, eyes scanning the room again. Vetinari merely smiled. ‘And in the meantime, you can lend me a shirt. Or a coat, for preference, because it’ll be cold out there by now and _somebody_ ripped _my_ shirt to pieces.’

‘I only sliced the buttons off, actually,’ Havelock corrected, but he got up, ignoring the twinge in his bad leg, and opened the wardrobe. He considered a moment, then pushed aside several black shirts to find his camouflage cloak,  knowing full well how much it would offend the man’s sensibilities (even as Moist was positively _straining_ to see over his shoulder).

‘Did someone give you that as a penance?’ Moist inquired, wrinkling his nose at it, before pulling it over his head rather roughly and grimacing at it in the mirror; he was obliged to turn up the cuffs, but then his face made one of its subtle, sly, shifts, and he could see the professional gaze switch on. ‘Oh, I see, _clever._ My grandfather had a hunting jacket like this, but that had green shading, for the forest.’ His face clouded briefly, then, and he did the buttons up in silence, regarding himself critically in the mirror.

It wasn’t the same type of likeability as Captain Carrot’s, Vetinari reflected. The watchman’s inherently good nature shone out of his face, and he paid everybody close, serious attention, such that they naturally trusted and confided in them. Moist von Lipwig was almost the opposite: it was like he was always letting you, just you, mind, in on his clever scheme, and yes it’s a little bit naughty, but no harm done, and that’s half the fun, isn’t it, I’m laughing at myself really, and you are laughing along too… 

Vetinari smiled slightly, then, pulling his dressing robe back on. Moist suddenly grinned and seized him for a kiss – no doubt half-expecting a knife again – then ran his hands down the smooth silk of the robe.

‘Do you find the black wears off at the end of a hard day of tyranting?’ he quipped. Havelock closed his eyes briefly.

‘Names,’ he repeated. Moist’s shoulders slumped, but he rattled them off obediently enough. Some years ago, Vetinari would never have taken the risk with him that he had: the hangman’s rope would have been the end of it. Or if Albert Spangler had been less real trouble and more mere nuisance, he supposed he would have hung him over the scorpion pit for a little while. That had been Lord Snapcase’s innovation. Of course, Snapcase used it to execute people who didn’t do what he wanted, which was, in Vetinari’s private opinion, a prime illustration of the man’s inability to think properly, when it was far better employed in making those people do what you _did_ want. But he hadn’t needed it for years.

‘Why do you have two doors to your bathroom as well as your chambers?’ Moist wanted to know, having taken to poking about again whilst Vetinari was thinking.

‘Because it takes time to get out of the bath if people are trying to break into your rooms and kill you,’ he replied.

‘Happen a lot, does it?’ Breezily, but with a slightly nervy undercurrent to it, as if he were aware, again, of just who he was toying with.

‘Quite infrequently now. I haven’t had to replace that windowsill in seven years.’

‘Well the person who replaced it last was a rogue, if it rotted through in only that time.’

‘I ordered it rotten in the first place.’ Moist laughed.

‘That figures.’ Then he carefully opened the outer door and peeked out.

‘Well, here I go,’ he said, sidling around the edge of the door: he poked his head back in briefly to wink and blow a kiss before disappearing. Vetinari watched him pad down the corridor: his trousers slid to half-mast and he wriggled his bottom, evidently knowing he was being watched. Vetinari sighed. Perhaps he should have kept the scorpion pit after all.

 

*          *          *


	8. Chapter 8

The day after what Moist privately referred to as _“The Most Dangerous Night of My Life (and it has competition)”_ the three Palace guards he had bribed turned up one morning at the door of the Mint, written instructions in hand.

‘Lord Vetinari said you specifically asked for us,’ the seniormost said, looking both defensive and shifty, ‘And that, being as guarding the Mint was a very important duty, he felt obliged to agree to our transfer.’ Of course he did, Moist thought. Creative punishments indeed. He switched on the smile and dialled it up to dazzling.

‘Oh did he call it a transfer? Well, between the three of us, chaps, it’s really a promotion, but I expect Lord Vetinari didn’t want it to get out ahead of my informing you.’ Three distinctly more interested looks.

‘So…that means a pay rise, right?’

‘Absolutely.’ He was going to kill Lord Vetinari. Especially as the Palace Guards were actually paid fairly well to begin with. But first, he still had to get his cravat back. Which would mean probably a repeat of The Most Dangerous (but oh god so _good_ ) night of his life.

 

He wore Vetinari’s camouflage cloak again, mostly because it was raining, and the mottled greys were even more distinguishable in the drizzle. He was not, however, going to get in via the dodgy window. Instead, having by now a fairly good idea of the layout of at least that wing of the Palace, he slipped in with a late-night delivery to the kitchens and made his way to the upper floors. There were far fewer guards than on the lower levels; he wondered if Vetinari actually considered them more of a liability than a security (possibly with good reason). There were certainly none outside the Patrician’s suite. He hesitated, then, actually feeling a little silly, knocked softly, a jaunty little rhythm he was fairly sure Lord Vetinari would instantly realise was him (and hopefully find slightly annoying).

He didn’t expect the door to open wide straight away.

‘An unconventional entrance, for you,’ Lord Vetinari remarked. Disappointingly, he was dressed, if down to his shirtsleeves and barefoot, just slipping something into his top pocket. Moist managed his most winning smile, although his heart was fluttering (which was not an improvement on pounding, on reflection: at least he knew where he was with sheer terror) and held out the cloak.

‘Just thought I’d return this.’ That got a wry look and a quirk of the eyebrow; nevertheless the man took it and nodded him in, then shut the door very firmly behind them. Moist listened to the _snickety-snick_ curiously, leaning back against the frame.

‘That’s an interesting way of locking a door.’

‘Yes, I thought you might appreciate it. If you’re very good,’ Vetinari said, leaning over him, rather as he had in the Oblong Office when he stole the cravat, ‘I’ll let you try and pick it sometime.’ A half-smile played ambiguously about his mouth, obscured by the beard.

‘Ooh, you spoil me,’ he dared.

‘Yes, I rather think I do,’ came the dry reply, but his eyes were flickering down over Moist’s frame: Moist was wearing a fairly nondescript footman’s livery underneath. ‘A servant? More modest than your usual attire.’

‘Well frankly I wouldn’t put it past you to bill me for the windowsill if I broke it again. And I’m over _Eskalade,_ at least until Spring, anyway. It’s miserable in the cold.’ He was pushing forward as he did this, into Havelock’s space, though not quite daring to touch, not yet.

‘And will you take orders?’ Havelock replied, abruptly seizing him by the shoulder and turning them so their positions were reversed: he began to walk Moist backwards back into the room. Moist licked his lips, mouth gone suddenly dry.

‘I always obey your orders,’ he said, impudently, which _almost_ got him a laugh, and did get him an unexpected kiss, before, predictably, his knees bumped the back of the bed and he sat down on it abruptly.

‘Indeed.’

 

Later, as he lay panting and sweated on the bed, he brought up the guards. Havelock was lying on his back, playing with a knife again. It was like watching a cat lazily sheath and unsheath its claws, he thought: they weren’t so much weapons, or even tools, but an extension of his hands, flicking in and out; now here, now there.

‘All right, I admire the efficiency,’ he commented, ‘Why expend effort working out which of your guards aren’t reliable when you can have me do all the hard work for you? What I don’t get is why you then sent men who can’t be trusted to guard the _Mint_.’ Havelock gave him a pointed look.

‘The man I sent to _run_ the Mint can’t be trusted.’ _But I think you **do** trust me, sort of, _Moist thought, but didn’t quite dare say.

‘So is this just an exercise to see if I can get them to be actually useful?’ he asked, genuinely puzzled.

‘No,’ Havelock said, not elaborating. Moist sighed, then raised himself on an elbow, looking down at the man beneath him. This close, he could see flecks of grey in the beard and at his temples; the suggestions of fine lines at the corners of his eyes. They hardly detracted; Havelock Vetinari was a very good-looking man, in a stern sort of way, and the plain tunics hid a body that was still Assassin-toned. But Moist wondered, suddenly, how old the man was: he had no real idea. Wondered, too, at the ugly twisted scar on his thigh: until he’d seen that, he’d assumed the cane was merely an affectation. He became aware that Havelock was looking curiously at him. He grinned and magicked a coin out from behind his ear, which won him a briefly bemused look.

‘It’s a bad likeness,’ he commented, tapping the Patrician’s head on the back of the coin, ‘Does your nose no favours at all. I reckon we should get another portrait for the new edition. Or, better, an iconograph.’ He lay back down again with a sigh, not quite realising he’d put his head on Havelock’s shoulder until it was already there, and he was already comfortable. ‘I never tried sleight-of-hand with _knives_ before. How do you do it?’ Havelock merely shrugged.

‘Practice.’

‘Rather more deadly than cards, I suppose.’

‘Cards can be weapons too,’ Havelock said, apparently seriously, then added, unexpectedly, ‘Anyone can play to their strengths and win, Moist. To truly succeed, one must learn to play to one’s weaknesses and win.’

‘Does all your post-coital chat involve politics?’ Moist complained.

‘Oh, was I talking about politics? Would you get my shirt for me?’

‘What? Oh, er, sure.’ Moist reached over and handed it to Havelock, still pondering his words: an object fell out of the top pocket, which on closer inspection proved to be a pair of half-moon spectacles. Havelock unfolded them and put them on.

‘Have – have you been _throwing knives at me when you can’t see me properly?_ ’ Moist demanded incredulously.

‘I can actually see you better when you’re slightly further away.’ _And when I’m up close?!_ Moist thought to himself. ‘They’re reading glasses. I’ve become slightly long-sighted the past year or so, but I only notice it for small print.’

‘You don’t wear them in the office.’ A shrug, as he picked up a book from the bedside cabinet. _He’s going to read? **Now?** _ Moist thought.

‘I will when I need to.’

‘You should do it now.’ An inquiring eyebrow raise over the glasses.

‘Why?’

‘Because you look sexy as hell in them.’ Moist declared, which happened to be true. Havelock actually looked briefly nonplussed, and he seized the opportunity to pull himself up and onto his lap.

‘I believe I just gave a strong indication of my advancing age,’ Havelock pointed out, rallying slightly.

‘Better get going on playing to your weaknesses then,’ Moist quipped. Havelock gave an exasperated sigh, although he did put the book down.

‘That is not what I – ‘ he began, but it was Moist’s turn to silence him with a kiss.

*          *          *


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Edited because annoyingly it lost my italics the first time around. Nearly there now folks!

After those first two instances, there was a brief lull before Moist dared his chambers again: Lord Vetinari knew that he had been busy organising the Harvest Festival, amongst other things. But he was soon back, and on an almost regular basis, finding creative ways to get into the Palace a couple of times a week. Vetinari was certainly getting a very thorough review of Palace security, although all that did was cement his long-held opinion that he was only as secure as he made himself, because otherwise he was only as secure as the weakest man in the chain, which was clearly insufficient. As for their trysts (Vetinari disliked the word, but had yet to find a suitable alternative that was neither too vulgar nor too prim) he could hardly deny he was enjoying himself. Sex, however, was not the primary reason he had agreed to this, nor even the second. If he were the sort of man who could be swayed by sex, he would not have lasted long as Patrician. Moist was an interesting one: he broke the rules, so the rule-makers naturally tried to punish or contain him, which somehow resulted in Moist re-negotiating some new rules and presenting them as if they were your idea in the first place. He did, in short, what Vetinari himself often did, but from the other direction. So Vetinari wanted to see how creative Moist could get, how much he could learn; to see what made him tick, and, granted, to strengthen his loyalty. He was surprised to find, however, that what he enjoyed most was the conversation, especially afterwards, when Moist often seemed to completely forget who Havelock was, and freely express his wandering mind.

‘So Jamieson is a decent enough sort,’ Moist was explaining, chattily, one night, ‘He’s not stupid, but he’s very easily led; maybe that’s just because he’s young. I think Gathyman found out about the pressure he was under: he’s got two younger sisters, mother dead, father invalided out of work. He needed money, and it was too easy to let Gathyman persuade him that if nobody found out, and nobody got hurt, a little looking the other way in exchange for some coin crossing his palm didn’t matter.’ Moist hesitated, and glanced up at Vetinari, almost as if seeking approval to continue. Vetinari continued to look at him with an expression of patient interest.

‘Well, anyway, I sorted out better, cheaper lodgings near the Mint for his family and got him a pay rise and a promotion: now the pressure’s off and he’s got some pride he’s actually a fairly dutiful and honest employee. I had to get him away from Gathyman, of course.’

‘So Jamieson is content, and Thornton’s gambling debts are resolved. What of the infamous Gathyman?’ Moist gave an overly-dramatic sigh.

‘Well, what can I say? Some people just appear to have an ingrained criminal personality.’

‘Hmm, no. I do not think that there is such a thing as an ingrained criminality personality, merely ingrained behaviours that tend to manifest as criminality.’

‘Well he’s basically a bastard, frankly,’ Moist said. ‘So I made a big fuss about his seniority, set him to guarding the gold vault because I’d heard “suspicious noises” the other night, and had Jamieson catch him in the act of trying – very badly – to pick the locks and get into it. Which had the added bonus of testing Jamieson’s new-found loyalty.’

‘Then you threatened to fire him?’

‘No, I threatened that _you’d_ hang him, which seemed a lot more effective. He kept gibbering something about scorpion pits which was quite ridiculous. Anyway, I set him to keeping an eye on the golem horses, on the grounds that he’ll be enough to deter a petty thief, he doesn’t want them and he’ll never be able to fence them, and that if he ever puts a foot out of line I really will send him back to stand outside the headmaster’s office, so to speak.’ Interesting; nonetheless Vetinari found himself frowning.

‘What’s so ridiculous about scorpion pits?’ he couldn’t quite stop himself from asking. Moist looked up at him in surprise from where he’d settled – apparently quite comfortably – with his head on Havelock’s shoulder.

‘Oh come on, it’s like you said: are you a “sword made of the blood of a thousand men kind of ruler”?’ Evidently his frown deepened, because Moist added hastily, ‘Not that the dungeons aren’t very authentic, but scorpions…aren’t they only found in hot places like Klatch anyway? And what do they even eat?’

‘Insects,’ Vetinari said, absently, ‘Or occasionally mice. And of course, they are naturally fossorial, which can be problematic.’ Moist was staring at him, like he wasn’t quite sure if he was being kidded or not. So he smiled, to knock him further off balance. It didn’t work: Moist laughed, then rolled onto his belly, leaned forward and kissed him, lightly.

‘I have to admit I do like that beard when kissing. Just enough and not too much.’ Another teasing kiss. He kissed a _lot_. ‘Do you like women as well?’ And that was Moist trying to knock _him_ off balance. He raised an eyebrow: he’d have to try harder than that.

‘Naturally.’

‘Huh.’

‘I believe you think our relationship is a game,’ Vetinari said to him, with an edge of steel in his voice, though not – yet – in his hand. Then – almost, _almost_ – his resolve faltered – because a brief expression of little-boy-hurt flashed across Moist’s face like a cloud scudding across the sun. It was, perhaps, his greatest weakness: that he found it hard to deal with genuine affection on those always rare, always unexpected, occasions that it was directed at him.

‘You’ve said that to me before,’ Moist pointed out, ‘But you know me, everything’s a game.’ The man was grinning once again, although there was a lurking uncertainty beneath it, almost an anxiety. It occurred to Vetinari, then, that there was more than one way to play this, and that he was not, in fact, going to do to Moist what had so patently been done to him before. It was unnecessarily cruel, for something that would not be so effective as another, softer approach. Besides, one must learn to use one’s weaknesses. Vetinari pulled his arm out from underneath Moist’s shoulder – it was in danger of going to sleep anyway – and turned to lean over him.

‘And I am always serious,’ he said, seriously, and settling his weight back down on Moist, feeling some of the man’s thrumming tension ease a little. He even went so far as to stroke an errant and slightly sweaty lock of hair back from his face, aware that the slight smile he had on his face was a crooked one. Moist’s eyes darted, trying to read him.

‘Adora’s back next week,’ Moist said, not unexpectedly, ‘She sent a clacks this morning.’

‘I know,’ Vetinari said. ‘She appears to have conquered Quirm in less than the anticipated three months. I’m minded to send her the next time I have a diplomatic dispute to resolve.’ Moist laughed.

‘I’m not sure Adora and diplomatic go that well together.’

‘I’m sure they would if it suited her, and if it doesn’t, well, that would suit me.’

‘Everything _does_ end up suiting you, doesn’t it?’ In spite of himself, he smiled again.

‘Apart from gold, perhaps.’

‘Definitely not gold. You still haven’t given me back that damn cravat.’ Vetinari took hold of Moist’s wrists, because his hands were wandering. Moist started to get interested again, predictably. He was a little old for all this exercise, but, well, Adora would be back next week, and Moist could find his thrills elsewhere then. For now, he craved Havelock’s danger, and his safety; he wanted to be dominated, and controlled, and delude himself that it was his choice to dare the edge of the knife, to feel it, but believe – just about – that it would never cut. And Havelock never let it.


	10. Chapter 10

Havelock pushed forward, not fast, but enough to make Moist groan and clutch at the pillow. _Ohgodohgodoh-ahhhhhhhhhhh._ That – felt more good than it had any right to.

‘All right?’ Havelock asked, stilling. He wasn’t exactly what Moist would call a kind man. But he wasn’t _unkind_ either, which meant something.

‘Yes. Good. Don’t stop,’ Moist managed, almost completely inarticulate by this point, although Havelock had at least sounded out of breath himself. Havelock tightened his grip on Moist’s waist a little, and resumed that slow, maddening, _controlled_ thrusting. Moist shoved backwards, hard, startling a grunt out of the man.

‘Careful,’ Havelock said, voice rough.

‘Your middle name, not mine,’ Moist panted, pushing back again; Havelock traced his tongue on the back of his neck, which sent tingles all down his spine, rendering him briefly motionless. Then Havelock did start to thrust a little harder, hitting the right spot as accurately as he could throw a knife. ‘ _Yesss,’_ Moist hissed, but he learnt his lesson and moved in time, a slow-building _accelerando._ He fell forward, trembling knees insufficient, frantically scrambling a pillow and strategically placed towel under himself and sending something clattering to the floor. Havelock moved instinctively now, his forehead pressed against Moist’s back, one arm locked around him, the other hand running freely everywhere. Gods, the feel of him, the _feel_ of him, deep inside him, pressed against him…it was too much. He was flying again.

‘Please,’ Moist managed, and that long hand found his cock, gave one long, hard pull – and that was enough to send him over the edge, where he hung in space for the longest, glorious while. Havelock thrust forward once more, hard, then abruptly, surprisingly, lost control of his hands, as he came with a long, deep groan that reverberated through his chest into Moist’s back. Moist felt those hands stroking his back, his hair, his face, even squeezing his upper arm; felt a kiss on his face, heard a constant low murmur of his name, and something else that sounded, unbelievably, like _bärchen._ Where had he learnt that? _Engel,_ he said back, into the pillow, almost soundless, as tears briefly, unexpectedly stung his eyes. Havelock, less romantically, chose that moment to pull out, and collapse with uncharacteristic clumsiness off to one side: Moist raised his head and saw him rub at his bad leg, with a grimace. He scooted forward and began to massage it himself; Havelock wrapped an arm around him, kissed him on the top of his head. Those fingers traced the damp on his cheeks, briefly, and he tensed, anticipating – but then, impossibly, lips followed the fingers.

‘Are you sure you’re all right?’ A low, concerned murmur. Moist almost laughed.

‘I’m fine. You just pulled out a bit fast.’

‘I’m sorry. My leg cramped rather suddenly.’

‘I’m fine,’ Moist repeated, ‘Does this help?’ He wanted to squeeze harder, but that scar tissue beneath his fingers was worryingly hard and knotted. A sigh, like a slight surrender.

‘Yes. Yes it does, actually.’ There was silence from both of them, then, for a while.

 

‘Do you know what your greatest weakness is?’ Havelock asked, sometime later, after Moist had come back from the bathroom, sipping from a water glass. Moist tried not to roll his eyes as he climbed back into the bed; it wasn’t that this wasn’t potentially an interesting and useful conversation to be having, it was that it was _now,_ after _that._ He was getting used to Havelock’s…little ways, though.

‘Dishonesty? Cowardice? Ingrained criminality?’ he suggested.

‘I do not refer to your insecurities.’ That hurt, a bit, and he suspected, from the matter-of-fact tone, that it hadn’t even been meant to.

‘Why have I started staying for your pillow talk when it’s so _abysmal?_ ’ he complained, covering his discomfort. Vetinari waited. ‘All right. What then?’

‘Your kindness.’

‘Yes, that was definitely what got me hanged,’ he retorted, drily.

‘No, that was your inability to deal constructively with your insecurities.’ He actually dared shove Havelock in the ribs for that, albeit only lightly. It got him a brief Look.

‘Well, why?’

‘Because of all your flaws, that is the one that _will_ get you killed one day.’ From the strange, distant expression in Vetinari’s eyes and from the slight frown – he was gazing into the distance as he spoke, not at Moist anymore – he could _see_ it too. Moist shifted, uncomfortable.

‘Well. I guess I must learn to play to my weaknesses as well as my strengths then.’ A smile, looking at Moist now, but it was a rather abstracted one.

‘Perhaps.’ Havelock’s expression was still clouded, then another thought seemed to occur to him. ‘Well. I daresay your stilettoed lady will have your back, as the saying goes.’ Then he frowned again; more thoughtful, this time.

‘Aren’t you going to tell me yours?’ Another of those patented Looks. Moist pressed his advantage. ‘You told me, shortly after you said you believed I thought our relationship was a game, that you trusted me. Well, Adora and me.’ The smile, then, might almost have been labelled fond on anyone else.

‘I do. But you know you’ll be much happier if you figure it out for yourself.’

‘I can’t even figure out what you’ve done with my bloody cravat,’ Moist griped, but he edged in closer, and felt Havelock’s arm come around him, even as he laughed.

*          *          *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Schnecke (snail), bärchen (little bear) and engel (angel) are all German terms of endearment.


	11. Chapter 11

This time – for the first time since they’d begun this – whatever it was – Havelock _did_ fall asleep; properly, deeply, asleep, which Moist only knew because he woke up with a start after several hours to find a long and surprisingly weighty arm wrapped possessively around him. Who would have thought the man had an ounce of tenderness in him? Certainly not Moist. Not before, anyway. He glanced at Havelock’s face, which had, well, not exactly _softened_ in sleep, but at least smoothened; he looked a little younger, less careworn. Moist wondered, then, what he had been like as a much younger man. He’d nosed about in what records he could find, of course, but there was hardly anything. The biography he’d made Reacher Gilt clacks across the country had been a masterpiece in saying nothing in as many words as possible (and was _really_ boring: he’d admittedly skimmed it). It didn’t really add anything to what Twerp’s Peerage had to say. It did seem though, that the Patrician had mellowed – no, _mellowed_ was really not the right word and _chilled out_ was a description Lord Vetinari would permit the day he started wearing gold – had, perhaps, relaxed a little over the years. Sure, the scorpion pit had probably always been just a tale to frighten the gullible, but the early Vetinari seemed to have a rather more pro-active approach to the tyranny side of things than the current one, who liked, where possible, to give a man enough rope to hang himself with, and save him the bother. Possibly it was just that less people were trying to kill him, judging by the rotten window. But Moist had the rather disturbing conviction that the young Vetinari probably wouldn’t have fucked him, and probably _would_ have killed him.

He looked at the man in the half-light of the room, because for once he knew Havelock wasn’t looking back, with that infernal brain of his tick-tocking away in its merciless mechanical manner (though who knew what he dreamed?) and tried to imagine him, not even as a young man, but a youth. Assassin’s Guild, but not, he couldn’t help but think, as flashy as some of their graduates could be. Havelock Vetinari did not _do_ flashy, and besides, he must have known that it would look silly; he was probably a gangly, skinny sort, with all the height and no weight on his bones. A deep voice he hadn’t grown into and couldn’t quite carry off; a long, gloomy face. Too serious to be popular, and far too clever for any of the other lads to really like him. An orphan, a loner, and a – possibly very lonely – misfit. And nobody, with the possible exception of Lady Sybil Ramkin, who moved in the same circles and was just one of those people who could find something worthwhile in _anyone,_ did like him. Yes…somebody who came to the Patricianship still young, knowing that he couldn’t even make anyone _like_ him, and that they did not, at that point, have a reason to fear him either. Somebody who knew that the worst threat to his power would have been not being taken seriously.

But there _were_ people who, if they did not like Vetinari, then at least approved of him, even supported him. The Seamstress’ Guild and The Guild of Exotic Dancers usually took his side in any dispute. That wasn’t completely inexplicable: Vetinari’s formation of those guilds had given the women who worked in them safety, a certain degree of respect, and, above all, a voice. Women in general seemed to favour him more than men did, which was interesting. Even Spike respected him, and had mellowed considerably towards him since she got the Clacks back: certainly she was one of only a handful of people who weren’t afraid of him. Commander Vimes always seemed to clash with him but also always seemed unshakeably loyal. The undead strongly supported him. And there was Mrs Cake, of course. The misfits and the outcasts…they were his people, though he was not theirs. Moist could understand that, up to a point: he’d been adrift from a young age, without a people or a home he would own to. He knew what that loneliness felt like: but he had the crucial advantage in that he had always been able to make anyone like him. He could and did use that likeability as a tool, and, on occasion, as a weapon. And Moist wondered, suddenly, about weaknesses, and whether a fundamentally _unlikeable_ man who didn’t fit had weaponised that unlikeability, and turned it into an asset by becoming the unreachable, untouchable tyrant whom nobody dared disobey and nobody liked, but everybody somehow found they needed.

There was light starting to come through the window, he realised, with a bit of start. He must have been asleep for hours. Yesterday, he had had one of Mr Tubsinger’s Giant Inflatyble Houses of Funne set up for the Harvest Festival, as close to Lord Vetinari’s rooms as he thought he could get away with. They were east-facing, and the shadow of one of the bouncy castle’s turrets on the curtain looked like a giant knob, just as he hoped. That was worth staying for. Amongst other things. He smiled to himself, then suddenly remembered that Adora had clacksed to say she would be taking the overnight coach and would be home at dawn today. And if she didn’t find him home…he’d lose a forfeit, and she would _know_ where he really was. He wriggled out from under Havelock’s arm, which woke him up.

‘Sorry,’ Moist said, with an apologetic kiss, ‘But it’s almost morning, and you were out for the count.’

‘I seem to recall some strenuous exertion in the evening, perhaps that’s why,’ came the urbane reply. He kissed Havelock again, even daring an affectionate stroke of his face; he only saw the flicker of expression in the man’s eyes because he was looking for it. And he only gave him _that_ smile back because Havelock was right about him: he _was_ kind, and it was a weakness. But it wouldn’t get him a knife from this man, he knew that, now. And besides, he wasn’t prepared to surrender what was, when it came down to it, probably his _only_ virtue.

‘I thought you were always on the alert,’ he said, feeling the need to say, well, something. A shrug.

‘Usually. But you’re so fidgety that the slightest noise out of the ordinary will result in you alerting me.’

‘Ha! Like a dog.’ Havelock made a show of looking at Mr Fusspot, who was in his basket in the corner, snoring away very loudly with his legs in the air.

' _Some_ dogs, certainly.’

‘Haha. I have to – Moist began, and froze, at a knock on the door. Havelock got up, slipped on a weapons harness and put the dressing gown on over that, unhurriedly, then went to open the door. Moist dived into the bathroom in a spirit of habitual flight. There was a low murmur of voices: he thought he recognised the other as one of the Dark Clerks, but he couldn’t be sure. The outer door shut, the voices receding into the distance.

 He hurried back into the bedroom, and gathered up his clothes as quickly and quietly as possible: then saw himself in the wardrobe mirror. It was, of course, too much to resist. He opened it quietly, heart back to a delicious, excited pounding. A wall of black, what a surprise. God the man needed to live a little. Moist would make it his life’s mission to get him into at least a midnight blue one day if he could. A few of the interesting camouflage outfits, including some rather intriguing balaclavas that would be of great interest to the criminal fraternity, and a few more weapon harnesses that looked a deal more kinky than they probably were. There was a top shelf, above head height, mostly layered with thick sweaters. Black sweaters. Well, it was nice to know the man didn’t freeze in midwinter, but really. The wardrobe was deep, however. Moist stood on tiptoe, straining to reach towards the back of the shelf, feeling for the luxury of silk. His questing fingers found something, but it was strangely cord-like. He gave a tug: resistance. He shoved aside piles of wool to pull out a strange cylindrical object, with a silken tassel on it. It was a hat. It was a _red_ hat, and that wasn’t even the most shocking thing about it, which was that it appeared to be a _fez_. What the hell was Vetinari doing with a Klatchian hat? He tried to picture Havelock wearing it and failed: it was too absurd. Also, surely even Mr Anti-Fashion would realise that a hat like that would make him look absurdly tall and do his long face no favours. Maybe he’d had to wear it for some foreign visitation thing. Hadn’t something about Klatch been in that deathly biography, some political sleight-of-hand that had avoided a war? He needed to look that up. Or perhaps…the hat was a memento of a lover? Moist’s imagination was much better at conjuring up some mysterious dark Klatchian youth in the fez (although an actual Klatchian would probably have pointed at a degree of artistic licence in the image). He burned to know the story behind it. But, mostly, he _coveted_ that hat. He popped it on his head at a jaunty angle and struck a pose in the mirror, imagining Havelock’s face if he came back in to find Moist wearing the hat and nothing else. He’d probably nearly stab him, but hopefully only nearly.

Two sounds broke his reverie: the first being the sound of coach wheels on the gravel outside the Palace, and the second being the sound of voices coming closer again outside the bedroom door. Something told him Havelock would be even more Disappointed with him if he was caught in the Patrician’s bedroom, as opposed to the corridor. Instinctively, he made for the window, only remembering as he climbed up onto the inner sill that the outer one would probably break under his weight again. And he had no rope or anything to help him get back down what was looking like a slippery and dangerous climb. There was the bouncy castle of course. It was a bit of a leap, but…yep, they were definitely coming this way. He threw his clothes down onto the castle, took a deep breath and jumped. He landed square against the side of the turret, which sagged under his weight, wobbled back and forth a bit, panicking him as he started to lose his grip…then slowly drooped down like a detumescing penis. He slid inelegantly forward and landed square in the middle of the bouncy castle. And bounced. And carried on bouncing, flailing all over the place and landing repeatedly on his backside. It was surprisingly awkward to maintain one’s balance. He had just about bounced to his feet when the coach screeched to a halt on the gravel drive. _Uh-oh,_ he thought, _Busted._

Adora stepped out of the coach, and walked over, staring; seemingly at a loss for words since the first time since he’d known her. Which perhaps was unsurprising, since her husband was currently bouncing up and down on a giant child’s toy wearing nothing but a Klatchian hat; the tassel on the fez and his cock obligingly bobbing up and down in time, and his various clothes jumping about the castle with him.

‘Guten morgen meine Schnecke!’ he said, cheerfully, feeling his heart surge, and put on his most winning smile, ‘Miss me?’ Adora lit a cigarette and took a heavy drag, raising an eyebrow.

‘Remember what I said would happen to you last time you called me a _snail?_ ’ Moist just grinned. ‘And what is it with you and hats, anyway?’

‘You’ll never guess where I got it from.’

‘I already did, and I don’t believe it,’ then shook her head, ‘I also can’t believe he _actually got you_ one of Mr Tubsinger’s Inflatyble Houses of Funne.’

‘What? No, I decided to get one for the children, for the Harvest Festival. Lord Vetinari asked me to organise it.’ Unexpectedly, Adora burst out laughing; great loud peals of genuine delight.

‘Of course,’ she gasped, when she finally got a hold of herself: Moist had in the meantime managed to retrieve the rest of his clothes. ‘Of course he makes you get your own bouncy castle. Of course he does.’ A cock of the head. ‘Does it do the trick?’

‘What trick?’ Moist demanded, as he staggered off the castle, and sat down to put his clothes back on. Thank goodness it was still early enough that nobody else was around.

‘Oh you know, scratch that little _itch_ you get when I’m not in town.’

‘I take it we’re no longer talking about bouncy castles.’ She shot a speculative look up at Lord Vetinari’s window, and gave him a smile that made his stomach feel funny.

‘Well, it looks like you are just about in one piece, so it seems he’s a gentleman of his word.’

‘Hang on a minute. What do you mean he’s a gentleman of his word? I thought you were talking about our _little agreement?_ ’ A mischievous look then that made him dart in to claim a kiss, no matter that he was still only half-dressed.

‘Actually, I was talking about the little agreement I had with _him._ ’ She started to walk back to the carriage. ‘Come on,’ she called over her shoulder, ‘Let’s not give the children a fright, eh dear?’

‘Wait, what agreement? Adora!’

*          *          *


	12. Chapter 12

Lord Vetinari paused as he re-entered his rooms, and considered. They were cold. The absence of a certain slippery former conman was palpable; there was a chill draught coming in through the window. Not an entirely former thief, however: in the few minutes Vetinari had been absent, his wardrobe had been ransacked, predictably, and he was fairly certain that he could name the one item that would be missing from it. That would keep the man guessing for _ages._ He walked over to the bed; it looked rather damningly dishevelled, and he straightened it with swift efficiency before retrieving his stiletto from where it had rolled under the bed last night. He reached under his tunic, to his weapons harness, and withdrew a small, shiny square from an empty sheath on his left side, near his heart. That was the interesting thing about silk, he reflected, as he restored the stiletto to the sheath and started opening up the little square. It could be folded up extremely small, if you did not care for the creases, of course. When betrayal came, it would not be terror on Moist’s face, but that hurt-little-boy expression. Still, there was time to learn. And there was always the formidable Ms Dearheart to reckon with, who was not to be underestimated. Things…were different, these days. The future was both more solid and more opaque. He could hear their voices drifting up from down below: that castle definitely had to be moved, it was far too close.

A whine from the other side of the room interrupted his reverie. Mr Fusspot was sitting up in his basket, with his lead in his mouth, eyes wide and tail wagging hopefully. Oh yes, it was morning walkies time. A terrible, wicked idea came to his mind, that could only be the result of the influence of Moist von Lipwig. Hmm. He would have to watch that. Nevertheless, sometimes it was worthwhile giving in to temptation…

 

‘I can’t believe you went to Lord Vetinari and put him up to this!’ Moist was still protesting, as the coach turned around in the driveway, and, really, the whole scheme had been worth it for his reaction alone. Not to mention the bouncy castle. ‘What if he’d – he’d thrown you in the scorpion pit or something!’ Adora laughed again.

‘Oh, I heard he got rid of that years ago.’ Moist stilled.

‘He – never mind. I know when my leg’s being pulled.’

‘I note you don’t seem to have been a reluctant accomplice to this _scheme_.’

‘Yes, well…’ Moist said, folding his arms defensively. Adora raised an eyebrow suggestively, and took a drag on her cigarette. Moist opened the window pointedly. She waited.

‘He’s actually…all right,’ Moist said, as the coach rattled along the gravel drive in front of the Palace. All right, indeed.

‘I would hardly have set you up with someone who wasn’t,’ she pointed out, ‘And he’s good-looking, in a way.’ Moist was still determined to sulk, a little.

‘He nearly killed me!’

‘Everybody who’s known you for more than five minutes has nearly killed you, Moist.’

‘Nonsense! They all love me!’

‘That too.’ She smiled; she couldn’t help it. He smiled back; not his most charming one, but the more open, almost awkward smile she suspected he never showed to anyone else. Except, possibly, now –

‘I think he’s rather lonely, you know,’ Moist ventured. Ah, there it was.

‘Indeed.’

‘God, don’t start with the “Indeeds,” I’ve heard that far too many times the past few weeks!’

‘In – ‘ she began.

‘I think Havelock _admires_ you,’ Moist cut her off, slyly.

‘ _Havelock?_ Good gods it’s even worse said out loud. Perceptive of him, though.’

‘Haha. So…’ Moist began, letting it hang. She tapped some ash out of the window and sighed. That was Moist for you. You set out the rules, and he broke them then came back to offer a shiny new set of rules with cream on top. Or possibly horseradish. What images, though.

‘Moist,’ Adora said, kindly, ‘As much as it would make a refreshing change to not be the only responsible adult in the room: be serious. I mean, there’s you with your silly hats –'

‘ – they are _not_ silly!’

‘ – him with his silly dog,’

‘You with your silly shoes.’ She paused a moment, then let that pass. ‘And all three of us cursed with silly names. To say nothing of all the other, _real_ problems it would cause.’ He looked crestfallen. And then you took the shiny gold rules and gave them a sensible haircut. ‘Still, I’m not necessarily ruling out an…expansion of the scheme. Time-wise, not person-wise, that is.’ He brightened again, and she was about to expand on _her_ rules, when her attention was caught by a movement at the edge of the gardens. ‘Speak of the devil…’ she began, and Moist glanced out of the window. Lord Vetinari was walking Mr Fusspot: the Patrician seemed to be limping much less than usual today, she noticed. He tipped his cane politely at Adora, who nodded back, trying not to smirk. Moist made a strange, strangled noise and collapsed back in the chair, apparently completely unable to get an articulate sentence out for a few moments, which was most unlike him.

‘That’s my cravat!’ he exploded eventually, ‘He let his _dog_ wear _my gold cravat!_ ’

‘On second thoughts,’ Adora said, her grin widening, ‘I _have_ always rather _liked_ him.’

 

END.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And I am DONE. Hooray! That turned about 5 times as long as it was supposed to, and got complicated. I'm still not sure if the perspective switch to Adora worked at the end, having re-written it about 3 times so if you think it doesn't, let me know.
> 
> Schnecke (snail), bärchen (little bear) and engel (angel) are all German terms of endearment. I’m subbing in German for Uberwaldian here; I don’t know if this is exactly corresponding to Discworld parallel geography, but I don’t speak Romanian, so it'll have to do. (I don't speak German either, but I at least have a smattering of it).
> 
> Thanks to theCopperCow for reminding me of the fez, and for interesting discussion.


End file.
